Chapter 3
By the time I reached Raymond’s house, dawn was still a rumor behind the rain clouds.
Catherine was waiting on the front steps with her coat buttoned wrong and a ring of keys clenched in one hand. Her hair was pinned up, but a gray strand had escaped and stuck to her cheek. She looked as if she’d dressed in the dark and forgotten to turn on a light.
“I didn’t know if you’d come,” I said.
“I didn’t know if I should.”
She tried one key, then another. The lock turned. Neither of us moved for a moment.
Then Catherine opened the door.
The house smelled of lemon oil, old books, and the faint mineral damp of a place that had sat closed overnight. A lamp glowed in the front room. The rest of the hall was dim, the framed photographs along the wall catching scraps of gray morning light.
I had not been inside since before my last deployment. Raymond’s fishing hat still hung on a peg near the kitchen, its brim crushed at one side. I looked away before memory could make me slow.
“Did you know about the warning?” Catherine asked.
“No.”
“What warning?”
I pulled the unsigned text up on my phone and showed her. She read it once, then again, her mouth tightening.
“Who would know you got that?”
“Someone who wants me here. Or someone who doesn’t.”
Catherine gave a small, unhappy nod, as if she recognized the shape of the answer.
The study door stood at the end of the hall. It was open, though the brass lock showed no damage. I stopped at the threshold.
Every desk drawer had been pulled out. Some sat crooked on the rug; others gaped open, bare and dark. A stack of books leaned against the chair. The blotter had been turned aside, and the framed photograph of Raymond in uniform lay face down on the floor.
Someone had searched the room quickly. Or wanted it to look that way.
Catherine stepped around me. “Oh, Raymond.”
I looked over the desk, the shelves, the empty spaces where paper stacks had once stood. Dust marked a clean rectangle on the bookcase. Whatever had been there was gone.
“Did you see this after the funeral?” I asked.
“No. I went straight home.”
“Was the study locked?”
“I don’t know.”
The answer came too fast, and then her eyes flicked toward the front of the house.
I took the brass key from my pocket. Raymond had said it opened the desk drawer. The lock was a narrow brass plate in the center of the desk, almost hidden beneath the lip. I fitted the key and turned it.
The drawer slid out with a soft wooden scrape.
Empty.
I nearly pushed it shut. Then I saw a thin, folded piece of paper tucked against the back corner.
The paper was yellowed at the edges, creased in the middle. I took it out carefully. Raymond’s handwriting filled one line.
Blue tackle box. Don’t trust the house with what’s left.
My fingers tightened around the note.
“What does it mean?” Catherine asked.
“He had a tackle box.”
“I know.”
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
I looked at her. She lowered her eyes.
“Did Dad know about the key?” she asked.
The question was a sidestep. I held her gaze until she met it again.
“Catherine.”
She rubbed her thumb over the keys in her palm. “Richard demanded the house keys after the funeral.”
A cold line formed beneath my ribs.
“When?”
“That afternoon. He said he needed to secure private papers before the housekeeper came back.”
“And you gave them to him?”
“I gave him one set.”
“You said you went straight home.”
“I did.” She swallowed. “He asked me for the keys before I left.”
I studied her face, searching for a defense and finding only fear dressed up as exhaustion.
“What did you think he was securing?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Why not?”
“Because he was your father.”
She said it as if that explained the whole ugly architecture of the family. It didn’t. But I could see how long she’d lived inside it.
I folded Raymond’s note and slid it into the inside pocket of my jacket.
“Did Richard take anything?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he come back?”
“I don’t know, Evelyn.”
Her voice cracked on my name. Not a confession. Not innocence, either. Just a woman standing in a room someone had torn apart, realizing that looking away had never kept the damage from reaching her.
A tap sounded against the front window.
Catherine flinched. I turned toward the hall.
An elderly woman stood beyond the glass beneath a black umbrella. She lifted one hand in an uncertain greeting. Catherine opened the front door, keeping her body between the stranger and the hall.
“Mrs. Alvarez,” she said.
“I saw the car,” the neighbor said, peering past her. “I thought you ought to know. There was a man here yesterday, during the reception.”
My shoulders stiffened. “What man?”
“I didn’t recognize him. He came out carrying a hard-sided file case. He put it in the back of a dark car and left.”
“Could you see the license plate?”
Mrs. Alvarez shook her head. “No. I’m sorry. I only noticed because your father was still at the club, and I wondered who would be taking things out of the house.”
Catherine’s hand tightened on the doorframe.
“Did you see where he came from?” I asked.
“From inside. The side entrance, I think.” The neighbor leaned closer, lowering her voice. “I heard the door open. I thought perhaps Richard had sent someone.”
“Did you see Richard?”
“No.” Mrs. Alvarez glanced down the hall, then at Catherine. “I just thought you should know.”
“Thank you,” I said.
She nodded and walked back through the rain.
Catherine shut the door. The latch clicked into place.
“Was that the only thing you saw him take?” I asked.
“I wasn’t here.”
“I’m not accusing you of carrying the case.”
“You looked at me like I knew.”
“I’m trying to find out who did.”
Catherine’s face had gone pale. “Richard said the papers were private. He said Raymond wanted them secured.”
“Did he tell you Raymond asked?”
“No.”
“Then why did you accept it?”
She didn’t answer. In the quiet, the old house creaked overhead. Somewhere beyond the study, a floorboard made a single, deliberate complaint.
Catherine’s breath caught.
I moved to the doorway and listened. Another sound followed—soft steps in the hall, too measured to be the house settling.
I drew Catherine back into the study. The room’s open door faced the narrow corridor. I pulled it nearly shut, leaving only a sliver through which I could see the hall.
“Stay behind the desk,” I whispered.
She started to object, then stopped. Her fingers closed around the edge of the desktop.
A step. Then another.
The light under the door changed as someone came to a stop outside.
May you like
Catherine’s eyes met mine. All the years of careful calls and swallowed words seemed to gather in that look, but there was no time to ask what she had known or when she had known it.
The door handle lowered.
